|Photo from The Green Optimistic|
Once, many years ago, Teo and I tried to pick prickly pears that were growing around our garden in Bitez. If you've ever done it yourself, you'll know it's not something that's worth a second attempt. We spent the next 3 or 4 days covered in itchy spots where the hair-like fibres had imbedded themselves in our arms, legs and faces. Any attempt to remove the fragile prickle is fruitless as they are so thin they break at the touch of the tweezers. If I've ever felt like eating the fruit, I've bought them from the kerbside sellers near the market, who use a knife and fork on a long stick to pick and prepare them. So, I'm feeling particularly hard done by today. As I was walking up the endless steps, a bright red plastic bag drifted in front of me and I bent down to pick it up to take to the bin at work. Within seconds I knew what this bag had held as my fingers starting pinging. Despite being apparently empty, this bag was a time bomb of future discomfort and I'm cursing the cruel individual who carried a load of prickly pears in this bright red plastic bag and then discarded it for some "do-gooder" to pick up. I couldn't drop it immediately; some inbuilt middle class ethic won't let me drop litter. So I now have a handful of tingling fingers which will make chopping onions and squeezing lemons just that bit more uncomfotable.